I’m part of the Darker Side of Spice Erotic Con Event – Coming This June 17th!

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Ladies and gentlemen, stop the press! I have some rather exciting news!

For the very first time ever I will be taking part of a BDSM Con Event DARKER SIDE OF SPICE hosted by the lovely and talented erotica author P. Nelson.

What exactly is this event? I’m glad you asked!

Kicking off June 17th and running through till June 28th, Darker Side of Spice is a virtual event that sees over 25 individuals – including best-selling authors, Dominants, submissive’s and BDSM coaches – interviewed by P. Nelson about the lifestyle, their inspirations and all the things you were curious about but never wanted to ask!

Apart from hearing behind-the-scenes stories on writing erotica and how these authors come up with ideas and characters, you’ll also have a chance to delve into such topics as –

· Romance in a BDSM Dynamic

· Facing your Fears about your sexuality

· Characteristics that will drive what kind of Dominant or submissive you will be. 

· What constitutes as Safe, Sane and Consensual. ·

· How to introduce toys to the mix. 

On top of that, you’ll get the chance to grab some goodies, including erotic books and the like! All you have to do is click THIS link and register for your free pass and to check out the other attending authors! You’ll also get to hear my awkward voice debut too!

Arghhh! I’m excited! Are you excited?!

The Fox

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Six degrees Celsius.
80% chance of rain.
That’s just what the weather app told her – the news was different.
She sat on the couch, eyes on the tv, listening to the weather warning – stay inside, they said. High winds coming from the south, torrential rain.
The weather man flashed a smile at her, white teeth, gentle assuring light blue eyes.
Her stomach began to knot though, rumbling and tumbling over on itself, as if folding.
She lashed out at the remote and the room plunged into darkness. 

Her husband had left for work, taking their seven year old son to school – a fact that he sulked against, saying the rain meant they had to play under cover – and he and his friends were about to finish their battle between dinosaur overlords that they began last week. She did not sway though, school was school – and she had to go rain, hail or shine at his age.
Now they were both gone, leaving her to their quiet home, where nothing but the rain cascading down could be heard.

Pulling the nearby cream lounge blanket over her chilled body – the blanket he and her would snuggle under as they tried to squeeze in a episode over Netflix – she moved her free hand over the touchpad on her MacBook and it’s glow lit her face. She didn’t want to proofread and edit, not today of all days, trapped as she was in this storming snow globe, feeling the ice cut right through her blanket and long-sleeved pyjama top to kiss the tips of her nipples, but she had to get something done. Something or anything. 

She got through three pages of this manuscript before her mind began to stutter through her memories. A country girl, she was. Born and bred in Grafton, New South Wales, moving to the city of Sydney at the age of nineteen to room with her best friend while attending college, all the while working at a record store in the city CBD.
She met the man she’d call husband while not even fully understanding what it was she wanted in life, and that whirlwind of time led her to life in Geelong, Victoria – where she suddenly had everything – a beautiful boy, a loving m home, a stable job she enjoyed (mostly) and a sweet man.

Despite this, something had begun to gnaw at the fringes of her mind. It began, she had noticed, when the rain fell a week ago.
Day after day, 9am to 3pm, when she’d pick up her son, she felt something there. Something different. Like a mirror that had begun to splinter, threatening to spread.
She’d put her head down and work, but the silence was heavier than usual. Few times she sat around the house, pausing from her work, feeling agitated and restless for reasons she wasn’t quite sure.
A few times over sharing cooking duties, she had snapped at her husband – no, not snapped. Snarled. She snarled at her husband. Later, in bed, she recalled her husband hurt and startled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He had asked. ‘I’ve never heard you like that before.’
She could only shake her head, the moment a distant memory, as if her mind was already on the case of blocking it.
But she recalled what he had said next.
‘Even your eyes looked different.’ Her husband continued. ‘Like…like amber.’

She closed the MacBook and left it to rest beside her.
What was she thinking? The Victorian Winter had finally gotten to her. It found a thread dangling out of her arm and pulled till she unravelled, exposing her ivory skin, her bare flesh, for the winter to lower and feast upon.
She was happy here, she knew. But wait, what has that got to do with anything? Where did the concept of happiness come from?
She shivered from under the blanket, not sure if it was the cold that chilled her now or the thought. 

From her right came a scuttling sound. Her Frenchie no doubt, wanting her to let him in and turn on the heater so they could snuggle.
She frowned, curled her hair around her ears where they wouldn’t get to her eyes, and rose from the seat.
‘Mason, get out of the rain, boy – you have a house for a reas….’
Her jaw fell open and she could feel her eyes narrow, focused in.
Amber eyes peered back at her from the grey outside.
Carefully, she moved across to the blinds, and began weaving the beaded cord through her cold fingers.
An inch at a time the blinds moved upwards, revealing red tufts of fur, matted back in the rain.
Her eyes met amber and never left, even as the light of the morning filtered through the backdoor.
The fox was standing on the back step, it’s ears flattened, twitching against the heavy rain that fell upon its head. It’s eyes watched her cautiously, wondering.
She, herself, audibly gasped once it came into full view – and found herself unlocking the backdoor and pulling it open.
‘Heyyyy…’ She began – but the fox ran around the corner, obscured by the side of the house.
In its exit, it left paw prints in the mud – a sign of its existence.
Without thinking, she stepped outside. Rain lashed at her skin from all around, each drop crashing down against her pyjamas and drenching it into a thing of weight.
Suddenly she could feel the cotton of her top and bottom cling to her body, framing her hips, her breasts, her ass.
She rounded the corner to the left, stepping through the gate that separated garden from the outside area.
Nothing but the plants she had placed was there. 

‘But…where…?’
Her eyes scanned the corners of her yard. A hole perhaps? Hidden ‘neath the shrub?
That couldn’t be, another thought came to her, we’ve sandbagged the bottom so Mason doesn’t continue to poke his head under to the neighbors side and say hello. 

All of a sudden her mind was back on the weight of her pyjamas. She could feel everything in that moment, the rain bucketing down upon her, the wind tracing across her nipples, the water trickling down her back cold as ice. She grunted, no, snarled, and tore at the pyjamas she bought from Peter Alexander, the pyjamas that she loved for the feel of them against her skin. The fabric made a satisfying tearing sound and the soaking piece came free, her body relieved of the weight. Now the rain relentlessly stung at her skin – her arms, her stomach, her breasts. 

She felt herself snort and growl as her hands now focused on her pants, her bare feet drifting in the mud, encasing her feet in the sinking earth, as she stepped out of her pants one foot at a time. She tossed them into the wall with a huff, pants and torn top, and stood there heaving in the rain, in the storm, the weekly storm.

It came to her then – a huff, a growl, a snort, a snarl, a Welp, a cry. It rose from her stomach, up through her lungs. She began to scream in bursts of guttural groans. She didn’t sound like herself, didn’t feel like herself, something was wrong, something else was with her, no, in her. She could never go back, could never be the same again.
Burning against the onslaught of rain drops. 

Water ran from her forehead down across her eyes. She blinked through them, and found herself unable to stop screaming even though it stung her.
She felt hands claw at every inch of her, leaving red streaks across her chest. They marked her breasts, claw hooking across her nipple, dragging the pain outward.
Her legs, as if unable to take the assault of rain any longer, trembled and collapsed beneath her and she fell to the ground, mud splashing across her knees and face.
This wasn’t her, but who was she? This wasn’t her, the wife, the worker, the mother. The busy bee, say yes, nod politely. Swallow down the hurt, let it lump in your throat no matter what. 

She curled up in the mud, her knees rising back into her chest. The rain now reached to her rear, coming to whip her anus and reach out to lash across her exposed slit.
Her lungs sucked in crisp winter air, the likes of which she had never experienced before. The fresh air swirled down her throat, and she sucked in more, eager for more. 

When her hands found her slit and began to glide across the length of her lips, she did not question it. She stayed in the fetal position, her arm stretching back across to stroke what was exposed. Using the rain water that was beading on her skin, she rubbed her clit, letting her chest rise and fall to take in more of the sweet air.
Time weaved around her, leaving her trapped in a dome where the rain always fell.
She wriggled on the spot, her ass twisting into bed, lathering her back and legs.
Icy muddy puddles pooled around her, lapping at the sides of her stomach.
She lay there feeling her grunting come back, burning up her throat, tearing out between her teeth, leaving a string of saliva to fly across her neck. She felt her face push into the bed, her hands assaulting her slit, working herself into a frenzy. She didn’t know…didn’t understand. She wanted to scream.
She found herself grunting, groaning, spitting. Saliva, mild and thick, ran down across the centre of her chest, coming to hang across the  shape of her breast.
At once she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs clamping down on her hand between her legs. The world around her spun as she blinked away the rain. 

She sucked down more of that air, rolling onto her back, letting herself fall into the muddy puddles around her. 

Just a quick note

If you want to write in to me, be it to ask a question or just chat, please understand that you are absolutely welcome to do so.

I want you to know that you will never be a burden, you will never be a nuisance, you never have to worry about inexperience or outstaying your welcome and you can write as long as you need to. Let it come to you – I don’t mind in the slightest. I will read every word.

Please do not feel shame. Or guilt. Or fear. You are not alone, what you feel doesn’t make you a monster. You’re not a bad person. APPROACHING me doesn’t make you weak.

You’re not silly for asking a question – we all started with our own questions.

And although I can be busy and scatterbrained, I want you to know that it’s not because of you. So don’t let that dissuade you as I will read every word and respond as soon as I can.

I’m writing this because, whether it’s a change of seasons or shift in the moon phase or something grand on a cosmic scale or whether it’s just my mind, I feel something compelling me to write. And since I’m a mystical person, I wanted to listen to that feeling.

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Sickeningly sweet and twisting.

Why do we act the way we do?

Winding tightly around your skin.

What drives us to do the things we do?

Your breath catches on your cracked lips.

Why are we so scared to make an action?

You can feel the heat flush over every inch.

Why are we so scared of ourselves?

Your heart is pounding in your ears.

Is it any less real if you ignore it?

A dull light flicks on in the corners of your mind.

You cannot hide from who you are.

Your head is bowed before the sink.

The more you run, the stronger it gets.

You try to get it under control.

This is who you really are.

Acid rising in your throat.

Take a breath and let it in.

Dreams

For me, dreams are a powerful experience. Some people don’t ever have them – I know my kitten rarely does – while others I’ve had the pleasure of being close to can’t remember theirs or find theirs to be unremarkable.

Mine, for some reason, are always potent. Whether they’re me reliving my past failed marriage and listening to a spectre spit my own perceived failures, dreams of fantasy and horror that inspire me to put pen to paper – or sex dreams – a manifestation of my inner bohemian sensibilities or just cotton-candy sex dreams to pass the time until morning? Or both.

When it comes to sex dreams, I feel everything intensely. Let me paint you a picture – I can feel the sexual tension within the dream, I can feel my cock ease into this faceless lady, feeling her around me. I can feel pleasure, a scratch, a bite.

I wake up with my cock at full hardness, pressing into the bed – and now, for today’s sex dream, I woke up with my fists balled, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. As I write this now, my other hand is still clenched, unable to let that sharp pain from my nails subside. Chasing a dream, I suppose.

The dream in question was a tale of a family divided. I played a brother driving his mother into town, listening to her tell me of their deadbeat husband. Their lackadaisical husband, soon to be divorced.

I dropped my fictional-mother off into town, and then made a bee-line for my fictional-sister to share the news. I found her in the bedroom of her house, apathetic.

The surrealism of the dream didn’t stop there. Anger turned to lust, lust scorched my skin as I crawled upon her bed – and suddenly, in her eyes, I saw it – the acceptance of the need in her own mind.

In the waking world, it all sounds like a bad porno in a low-rent room adorned with pink detailing everywhere – but in the moment, it was frantic. Nothing else mattered but the rhythm between us, the feeling of slipping into her right cunt and feeling her warmth beneath me. I held her arms above her head, light BDSM creeping into my dreams, teasing my lucid self to go further. To dominate,

Before I could come, I awoke dazed to a winterly morning, the chill kissing my shoulders and sending an icy trail down to my bare ass. My fists were balled, my Cock was hard and I had to catch my breath.

I will traverse this day in a primal mood, I will tell you. The closeness of an orgasm will linger as I set about my daily tasks, a low pulse in my Cock will distract me as I attempt to work. And it’s working – I’m here, writing on this blog. But now I must get up, get dressed and greet the day.

I’m sure I’ll dream again soon.

Incoming Rant and Ramble about being a BDSM Mentor

Grey sky leaking the bedroom windows, a soft rain on the roof over my head – laying naked in bed this winterly morning, I’ve been reflecting on my time acting as a mentor, of sorts, to those that have wanted or needed a recurring figure and friend to help them in their own journey, be they new and learning or savvy to the ways but finding new wrinkles in their mind.

When I first learned that such a thing as a BDSM Mentor existed, I didn’t really know what to make of it – was it key for some special sexual dynamic? Another riff on addressing one as ‘Sir’? It wasn’t until I read up on it, and read thoughts from the community on this here internet, that I realised what it was. And it spoke to me.

A mentor needs no ceremony, no bells and whistles, no special speech assigned to them – they merely are a friend on standby, someone to offer resources and guidance, someone who stands by the individual for as long as the individual needs their help.

A mentor is a preference though – one does not require a mentor. I didn’t have one, I stumbled through knowledge and here I am – and if someone like myself can do it, anyone can. No, a mentor is purely for those who feel they need the guidance. Someone to drop in and chat.

So in late 2016 / early 2017, I started to give it some thought. Could I be a mentor, I thought? Do I know enough? Can I help others? Am I worthy of their time? I doubted myself but my desire to help others where I struggled won over. I ran it by my kitten, clearing misconceptions, making sure that – if I were to chat with anyone about these things, man or woman, that she would be comfortable with that notion.

So I began to offer it more openly to readers here, being sure not to push the concept or make any shy person feel obligated, as I sometimes have been known to feel. I just wanted people to know someone could chat with them.

It became a thing of growth for me. I learned to be careful of influencing others with my own thoughts on kink, instead creating a space for them to feel at ease in their own skin. I listened and didn’t speak unless they asked. It’s not my place to interfere, I didn’t want to put thoughts in their head. If they needed a push, Well I would do that gently and only if I felt it was safe to do so. I didn’t want to rewrite their thought process.

Since 2017 I have been blessed to have had the opportunity to help people work through some of their own thoughts – and seeing these people go on to happy D/s relationships has been a beautiful and fulfilling thing for me, knowing in some tiny way that I helped them. It brings a tear to my eye.

It’s strange to me, when someone approaches me and apologises for their scattered email of thoughts or for wasting my time – because I’ve never had a problem with any of that. I’ve never felt out by an email, never minded wandering thoughts – as I’m the same – and I make the time to check my emails and blog. More than that, perhaps I think it’s strange because I can see myself in that person – scared and doubting, unsure about what they’re doing.

I don’t offer mentoring as much as I used to. A flare up in my anxiety caused me to doubt myself, leaving scars that remind me of those troubling thoughts – Who are you to offer that help? No one wants a stranger interfering. Just stop what you are doing.

But I try to relent and push through and still offer help where I can, because once in a while someone will write and say they’ve been trying to write for months but couldn’t overcome their own anxiety.

Being a mentor and mentoring fulfils my soul in many ways, but it has taught me growth. I’ve learned about who I am, about being a teacher, about the sides within me that someone I’m helping helps me see in the first place, thus teaching me.

It’s just a wholesome, lovely thing. And the fact that this person trusts me enough to let me in and help? That’s an honour.

Needs

As he stumbled to the kitchen from the bedroom, completely nude, the corner of his eyes wet from the mist of forgotten dreams, he noticed his cock was hard – and achingly so.

With each step forward to the kitchen sink where sanctuary awaited, his cock seemed to pulsate in a delicious twitch, crying out maddeningly to stop the pulse.

Yet the thought of the water from the kitchen sink, cool and clear and heavenly, was too hard to ignore.

Making his way across the hallway and onto the cool tiles of the kitchen, his hands thumbed for the faucet clumsily.

He found it after the third swipe, finding a spare – and rinsed coffee mug – from the dishrack beside him.

As the water ran sweetly into the cup, he felt the urge come again from his cock, which twitched and bobbed on the spot. His muscles clenched in response to subdue the sensation.

Then he clicked off the faucet tap and drank greedily. The coolness against his raw throat was heavenly, and yet too cold all at once. He had to stop, to breathe – to swallow again to coat his freshly revived throat with his tongue.

Then he felt it – something brushing against his shaft. He jumped at the couch, letting out a startled gasp.

‘You’re always so jumpy…’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘Hmmm…no…’

The velvety voice of his wife came out from the darkness, purring in his ear.

Her breasts pressed against his back below his shoulder blades as her body pressed against his.

In the darkness, she was consuming him, their flesh becoming one active entity.

Her hand seized his cock then – and she began to initiate a rhythm.

‘What…what are you doing?’

He cleared his throat, speaking felt weird after being suspended in sleep.

‘I…have a need…’

Her teeth slid down into his neck as her hair fell over his shoulder.

The bite made his cock twitch. As it resisted against her grip, she let out that beautiful giggle that made him fall in love with her all over again each time.

‘Again With the jumpiness…’

She had that tone about her, he realised. That tone when she comes possessed by something unlike her in any other circumstance. It’s a dark, smooth and deviant voice – commanding, mischievous.

She was right against him now, he felt her stomach tightly snug behind him.

Ahead of him, light bounced from one corner of their new kitchen to the next – a car passing by in the dead of the night, on its own odyssey.

‘You do know any passing car or neighbour can see us right?’ He said.

‘Let them.’ She replied simply, focused on the pulse that was magnifying as the seconds passed.

He was suddenly aware of his breathing, quickened and shaky. He could suddenly feel the soft burst of air across his neck, as she breathed in the darkness.

Suddenly she slapped him – and he realised his hands had a mind of their own, had been reaching back behind to touch what he could.

‘No.’ She said, low and husky. ‘Just you.’

‘But – ‘

‘Both hands on the counter, mister.’

He let out a breath, which twisted out of him into a moan. He knew better than to disobey her.

Her hands felt as wild as the water had felt coming down his throat. She slid the palm of her hand down the length of his shaft, sliding it back while reaching underneath to skim across his balls.

Beneath the rising pleasure in him, he felt that sensitivity jolt through his shaft – and she giggled to herself, no doubt proud.

A dizziness began to fold over him now – dizziness mixed with a feeling of warmth and fatigue.

Sensing something in him, her pace quickened and her rhythm got faster – and faster. As if bracing herself or protecting him, with her free hand she gripped his chest, palm open.

A sharp moan gurgled up his throat and out his lips and he came, shooting his load in quick, short bursts across her finger.

As he gathered his breath, head bowed, she spoke to him softly.

‘Face me…?’

It was strange – was she asking a question or demanding him to. He faced her regardless – and in the fuzziness of darkness, saw her fingers disappear into her mouth as she giggled, licking clean what was hers.

He wanted her, then and there – more than anything. He wanted to look into her eyes as he had his fun with her, as he let her come.

Instead, she grinned and turned from him, her hips swaying as she disappeared completely from view and into the darkness.